Gather ye rosebuds while ye may
by goldencarnation
Summary: What if the Dead Poets had been able to talk to Neil before he died? This is what may have happened if the boys had paid Neil a late-night visit to voice their congratulations. Very slight Anderperry, depending on how you see their bond. Rated T just for themes of suicide. No coarse language or anything. Please read and enjoy! Happy endings all around this time! :)


I don't own Dead Poets Society, nor any of the characters. Enjoy, and please review! I don't plan on writing anything else, but if you like what you read, I may continue!

* * *

Neil allowed his body a slight shiver as he stood with his bare feet upon the cold wood of his bedroom. The open window sent a freezing gust across his room. The icy air rustled some loose papers on his desk and kept travelling across the room until it hit him on the soft skin of his chest.

He looked over to the window. The earth outside was a illuminated grey as the snow reflected the light of the moon. All was silent. Oh, so silent. The breeze was gone, and the papers on the desk below the window stood still as the snow. Atop the papers rested a crown of branches and red berries. Puck's crown. Just a few hours, it had been his crown. He had been the one to wear it; he had been the one center stage, bidding the audience a farewell. How could he have known that would be his final farewell?

Oh, well. It was fitting. Now, he wouldn't have to write a note or anything. He had already said his goodbyes to everyone who mattered most to him. Mr. Keating, Charlie, Knox, all the Dead Poets had been there. Todd had been there.

Oh God, Todd. Poor Todd. Neil hoped that Todd would be alright without him. Ah, the other Dead Poets would be there for him. Mr. Keating too. He'll find his voice someday, and then he'll shine as brightly as that day he spoke of a sweaty-toothed madman!

Neil frowned. If only he could shine once again as he did on that stage. Yet how could he, if he was forbidden to act?

A wave of sorrow overwhelmed his body, and he let out a deep breath. With that bit of air, expelled from his body, all emotions left him too. And he was left standing there, a body. Cold, and empty.

He looked down at the crown in front of him. What would it feel like to wear it, just once more? There was a small glimmer of hope that, perhaps when he put on the crown, he would feel alright; everything will be alright. If he had to wear the crown all his life just to feel alright again, he would. Yet, with the crown atop his head, he only felt heavier. It was only added weight, dragging him down. It felt so light, so freeing, when he was Puck.

Slowly, he lowered his eyelids and let the darkness engulf his vision. In a vain, last attempt, he tried to envision the evening he had on the stage. The warm, blinding lights. The rush of just letting everything go and becoming his character. Still, emptiness!

In one deliberate motion, he dropped his head until his chin hovered parallel to his collarbone. He knew what he had to do next. There was nothing left for him to do. He knew exactly which room it was in, which drawer held it, and, most importantly, how to use it. It was simple, really.

The cold now hit his back as he turned around and began to head towards the door. His hand was halfway through quietly maneuvering the small doorknob, when something hit the frame of his window. Neil whirled around. His heart hammered within his chest. Was someone trying to break in? He scanned the room for a makeshift weapon, but there wasn't much there, unless a few pens could do the trick. Could someone die by papercut? Neil didn't think so, else he likely would've used that as the way out, so to speak. There was his globe, he could use that! Though, did he want to fight?

He inched closer to the still open window. Outside, he could hear the quiet shuffling of snow. Just as he was about to peek outside, however, an unidentified flying object came in through the window, and hit him straight in the nose.

"Jesus!" he muttered to himself. It had been a snowball. Some freezing snow, which now dripped from his stinging face onto the floor in icy drops. A voice laughed outside, and another voice let out a rather obnoxiously loud "shush!"

Wiping away the remaining snow from his face, Neil leaned over his window sill and peered outside. Some feet below his window, safely on the white ground, stood the Dead Poets, smiling up at him. Charlie, the jerk, had the gall to stand there, grinning like an idiot, with three more snowballs in his hand.

"Charlie, what are you doing?" hissed Neil.

Charlie laughed again, and dropped the remaining snowballs. "Hit ya, didn't I?"

Neil tried to laugh back. It didn't sound very real, despite his experience as an actor. Apparently, he could act well, but he couldn't lie quite as well.

"Listen," he began, "you guys can't be here. I'm in enough trouble as it is, going against my father's back to do the play." Neil tried to turn around again, but a soft, unsure voice stopped him.

"N-Neil?"

Sighing, Neil leaned his head against the wall and looked out the window. "What is it, Todd?"

"Well," said the blond-haired boy, as he shifted awkwardly, "we just came down to congratulate you on a good job, since-since we didn't really get a chance to before you were whisked away-"

"-yeah well, thanks, Todd" interrupted Neil, "but it's over, I'm never going to act again, and you all need to leave."

"But Neil, we-"

"Jesus! Todd, can't you leave me alone for one night?" Neil sighed. "Can't you live without me always being there for you?"

Back on the ground, the Dead Poets shifted nervously and glanced between each other. All except Todd, who still stared up at him, unwavering.

"Maybe we should go," whispered Meeks.

"Yeah, let's go," replied Pitts. Cameron had already turned around to leave.

"Neil-"

"Shut up, Todd! He wants to be left alone."

"Leave him be, Todd."

The rest of the Dead poets had all begun to leave as well, following after Cameron. But the stubborn blond still stood there, staring up at Neil.

"Neil," said Todd. His voice was unshaken; it was even and confident, yet careful. "Are you okay?"

Neil blinked. For a moment, he felt a lump in his throat prevent him from speaking, but he managed a weak smile. "Yes, I'm alright."

Todd still didn't move. Neil was getting impatient. Why wouldn't he leave?

"It's cold out today," stated Todd, matter-of-factly. "Aren't you cold?"

Removing his head from the wall, Neil spun angrily on his heels and slammed his hands against the window sill.

"No, I'm not cold!" He paused, and blinked back a hot tear. "Todd," he pleaded, "please, leave me alone."

Todd said nothing, did nothing. And he remained that way for what felt like a century, until, finally, he looked down to his shoes and cleared his throat.

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," he began. Todd's voice was hushed among the silence of the snow-padded earth, yet it still rang through the air with a confidence Neil had only heard him speak with once before, during his sweaty-toothed madman poem.

"Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying." He looked up again, and they locked eyes. Todd said nothing else, yet with those final words, Neil knew that Todd understood what had been going on in Neil's mind moments before; what he had been planning. And suddenly, Neil felt guilty.

"Carpe diem," whispered Neil.

Todd smiled shyly, and thusly returned to his usual awkward self. He gave Neil a quick nod, stuffed his hands into his pockets, then spun around to walk after the rest of the boys.

"Todd?"

The boy in question stopped in his tracks, and looked over his shoulder.

"Thanks. I'll...see you tomorrow."

Todd nodded once more. "Yeah." And with that, he disappeared into the grey night to leave Neil alone with his thoughts.

With some effort, Neil was able to get the old window closed and locked once more. The room already felt warmer. He sniffed once, and smiled. Good old Todd. He'll be perfectly fine without Neil. But, for now, it's Neil's turn to need Todd. It's not quite his time to go; he has some days left to seize.

* * *

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew'd,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

 _Answer._

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Both poems are by Walt Whitman. First is "Oh Captain! My Captain!" and the one you have just read is "O Me! O Life!"


End file.
